


power outages and rainy-day games

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cute, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlocked - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, No angst (for once), Okay maybe a little bit of angst, One Shot, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, SherlockxJohn, Truth or Dare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 05:58:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21113834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Stuck inside during a storm and a power outage, Sherlock and John play a game to pass the time.





	power outages and rainy-day games

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Перебои с электричеством и игры в дождливый день](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23943361) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)

> Thought I would take a break from the angst of my 'fall from grace' fic to write some Johnlock fluff.
> 
> Inspired by this tumblr post:  
https://simplyclockwork.tumblr.com/post/188475925010

The flat was eerily quiet when John woke, and he shivered as chill air crept through and under the blankets draped over his body. Pulling the covers to his chin, he wiggled against the mattress, rubbing ice-block feet together as he squinted through the pale morning light at the alarm clock beside the bed. He saw it was blank and dark. He sat up, smoothing a hand through sleep-mussed hair. Looking around, he located his mobile and checked the screen for the time: _05:45._ As he read the numbers, the screen flashed an empty battery symbol and faded to black.

From below came a loud clattering noise, followed by a thud. He froze, listening, body tense and ready for action. Silence. Then—what sounded like a muffled curse and a thick smacking sound, as if someone had struck out at a wall. Sighing, John tossed the dead phone onto a pillow and swung his feet out of bed, wincing as they met the cold, hard wood floor.

Digging out warm pajama pants and a loose jumper from his laundry basket, John listened for further sounds; encountered a thick, heavy silence. Pulling the jumper over his head, he looked around for slippers, finally spotting them pushed halfway beneath the bed. Stuffing his feet inside and curling his toes into soft warmth, he made his way to the door, pausing to flick the light switch on the wall.

_Click._ Nothing. No result, no light. He flicked it a few more times, almost out of habit, before dropping his hand back to his side. No power. That explained the silence blanketing the flat like a heavy sheet. Rubbing at his arms through the jumper, John made his shivering way down the stairs. 

He was greeted by a familiar grey light from the living room windows as he stepped off the final stair. Walking over, he looked out at pouring rain; water sluiced down the glass in sheets. Hardly anyone passed by outside, and those who did walked bent against heavy wind, coats soaked and darkened by the downpour. John shivered, feeling cold just watching them, and stepped away from the window, turning back toward the room. 

Looking at the cold, empty fireplace, John wished fervently that it wasn’t electric. He looked toward the sofa for the blanket usually draped there; found it missing and caught movement from the edge of his vision. Turning, he found Sherlock standing in the kitchen with the aforementioned blanket wrapped around his narrow shoulders. 

“Morning,” John greeted, noting the strange way the detective stood in front of the sink. Moving around, he realized Sherlock was holding an empty mug in his hand, staring dourly at the kettle on the counter. John chuckled, rubbing at his arms again. “No power, no tea.” He noted sympathetic, before turning to the fridge. “At least there’s no real food in the fridge to spoil.” He paused, asking: “…body parts?” 

Sherlock turned his sour look onto John, providing all the answer needed. John tilted his head and shrugged, spreading his hands, palm up, in a half-hearted gesture of supplication. Sighing, Sherlock placed the empty mug on the counter and stalked into the living room. Following, John watched him drop onto the sofa in a dramatic sprawl, wrapping the blanket about himself in a tight cocoon. Settling into his armchair, John looked once more at the fireplace, rueful, then turned his attention back to Sherlock. The detective stared back, eyes half-open and lips set in a heavy pout.

“What was that sound, earlier?” John asked, looking around for and picking up a day-old newspaper. He shook it open and scanned the front page. “The thudding and banging.” Across the room, Sherlock huffed and pressed his cheek against the arm of the couch.

“Nothing.” The detective muttered; his deep voice strangely irritated. John looked over at him, arching an eyebrow.

“Didn’t sound like ‘nothing’.” He pressed.

“It was _nothing.”_ Sherlock repeated, narrowing his eyes. John chuckled and shook his head, looking back to the newspaper. They sat in companionable silence, until Sherlock spoke again, his voice deeply annoyed, eyes looking fixedly past John.

“Okay, I fell.” When John looked over in surprise, Sherlock’s eyes flicked to his face, then away again, lips pushed out in a definite pout.

“You fell.” John repeated, eyebrows raising with disbelief. “_You_ fell.” 

Sherlock glared at him and wriggled deeper into the blanket, long feet digging into the couch cushions. “Yes, John. Do you need to have your hearing checked? It was dark, I couldn’t see, I misjudged the distance between the steps, I fell.” He outlined the incident as if reciting the steps required for a scientific experiment. 

John shook his head, then looked out the window, thoughtful. Frowning, something occurring to him, he looked back. “Wait—what were you doing on the stairs?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and didn’t deign to answer, instead turning his back to John and wedging his body against the back of the couch. John shrugged; chose not to pursue the topic despite the curiousity burning in his head. Turning a page, he began reading an opinion piece on lorry trucks from a dedicated commuter. The words washed over him in a bland sort of way, and he felt himself slipping toward a doze. He finally felt warm, except for his feet, which still felt like blocks of ice, despite the slippers.

In the meantime, Sherlock had rolled onto his back, head sideways, and was staring at the doctor. As John dreamt of heated floors and warm tea, Sherlock narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips.

A throw pillow—emblazoned with a Union flag—smacked into the side of John’s head, making him jump up, his eyes wide. Catching the pillow against his side, he trapped it there with his arm and stared at Sherlock, the newspaper crumpling down to the floor.

“Sherlock—” John gasped, digging his fingers into the fabric of the pillow. “What the _hell?”_

Sherlock looked calmly at him from beneath coyly lowered eyelashes, half of his face hidden by the blanket. John swore he was smirking.

“Bored.” Sherlock answered, pulling his arms out of the blanket and raising them in the same palms-up, supplicating way that John had earlier in the kitchen. John glared at him; stalked across the room and stood over the detective in his blanket burrito.

“Well, _sod off_.” John snapped, frowning down at him. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

“Rude.” He offered, and started to unwrap himself from the cocoon, intending to sit up. As he lifted his shoulders from the sofa, the throw pillow struck him in the face. He fell back in surprise as the cushion connected with his cheek. 

“Captain Watson!” He exclaimed. “Striking a man when he’s down—and a sneak attack, no less! I thought you were a man of _honour_.”

John rolled his eyes and swatted the detective with the pillow again, which Sherlock avoided by twisting away. “A soldier is only as honourable as his adversary.” He retorted, dropping the pillow into Sherlock’s lap. The detective grabbed the cushion and tossed it onto the floor.

“Indeed, Watson. Well said.” He snorted, finally sitting up. Crossing his legs, he balanced an elbow on one knee, dropping his face into the palm of his hand. “Still bored.” He looked up at John expectantly, silently asking him to fix it. John rolled his eyes again, looking toward the window and the downpour that still pattered against the glass. He sighed. 

“We could play a game?” He offered, turning his attention back to the detective. Sherlock cautiously perked up, his eyes sharp and interested. It was like watching a child emerge from a post-tantrum pout.

“What sort of game?” The detective asked, his expectant eyes fixed on John’s face. The doctor shrugged, glancing around the room for inspiration. He saw the chessboard and his lips quirked. He didn’t feel like being beat by Sherlock again, especially when he recalled how the other man had lorded it over him for _months_. Finding very little inspiration within the flat, he searched his memory. He vaguely remembered playing games with fellow soldier as they waited-out retrievals in red zones; of combat-fatigued men and women perched behind crumbling buildings, guns in hand, passing time as they tried not to acknowledge the feeling of Death breathing down their necks. 

He shook the images out of his head and looked back to Sherlock. “I’ve got a game.” He announced, and the detective sat up straight, intrigued. John’s lips quirked in a wry smile.

“Truth or Dare.” He announced, emboldened when Sherlock did not immediately shoot the idea down, instead looking thoughtful.

“I’ve never played.” He said, slowly, and his long fingers drummed against his knee. John held his breath until Sherlock finally nodded. “All right. Let’s play.”

They sat in their respective armchairs, facing one another. Before seating themselves, they had found and opened a bottle of whiskey found in a kitchen cupboard. Glasses poured, they sipped companionably at the hard liquor, letting it warm their bodies. Sherlock, still wrapped in the couch blanket, sat curled into a tight position, his bare feet folded underneath him. John leaned securely back in his own chair; the Union flag pillow compressed behind his back. He was comfortable, the whiskey a warm liquid fire in his guts. The only cold part of him was still his icy feet, and he considered retrieving socks from his room upstairs, then thought better of it, not wanting to give Sherlock an opportunity to change his mind. Or wreak havoc as his boredom was prolonged.

Also, he still burned to know what Sherlock had been doing on the stairs. 

Settling deeper against the chair, John folded his arms and looked at the tall man seated across from him. “All right then.” He began. “Truth? Or dare?”

Sherlock looked thoughtful, grave, and John was faintly amused at the seriousness with which the detective pondered the question. Finally, he nodded, answering. 

“Truth.”

John narrowed his eyes, thinking. He drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair. “Okay…” he said, slowly. “Have you always hated your brother? 

Sherlock snorted. “Really, John, I don’t _hate _Mycroft.” He chewed his bottom lip, then shrugged. “No, I suppose not. When we were kids, we got along well enough. But, as we grew up, Mycroft became more…boastful.” He shrugged again, spreading his arms. “He became a stuck-up prat and I became, well. Me.” 

John nodded, folding his hands together in his lap. “Your turn.”

“Okay. Truth or dare?” 

“Truth.” John replied at once, horrified images of possible Sherlock dares flashing through his mind. 

Sherlock tapped a finger against the arm of the chair, face carefully composed and thoughtful. Finally, he spoke. “Have you ever committed a crime?” 

John laughed, louder than he meant. “What—other than the ones I’ve committed with and for you?” He asked, looking at Sherlock with amusement. The detective sighed. 

“Yes, of course, John. Obviously, I meant before we met.” He rolled his eyes and John made a rude noise. 

“Yeah—when I was fourteen. I stole a book.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t caught, but I felt bad so I took it back.”

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, his expression blatantly curious. “Why?” He asked. John frowned.

“Why did I take it back? Or why did I steal it?”

“The latter. I understand morality, John. I am more interested in the motivation.” 

John grinned and shifted into a more comfortable position. “Nope, Sherlock, it’s not your turn anymore, it’s mine. You’ll have to wait to ask that one.”

Sherlock scowled at him. “Fine.”

John laughed, sitting up to top up his glass. He held out the bottle and Sherlock offered his empty glass, watching as John splashed dark amber liquid into it. Sitting back, John carefully placed the bottle on the table beside his chair. “Okay, truth or dare.” Sipping at the drink, Sherlock regarded John with annoyance over the glass.

“Dare.” He finally replied, eyes glinting as if silently calling John’s bluff. 

But John smirked, confidently holding the detective’s gaze. “Dare it is, then.” He said. Jumping up, he disappeared from the room, up the stairs. Sherlock watched him go, perplexed, until John returned a few moments later, something brown, green and red clutched in his hands. The object jangled with metallic ringing.

John held the object out. “I dare you to wear these—and I get to take a picture.” 

Sherlock stared at the offering, turning pleading eyes to John’s face. “No—come on, John, this is a completely unreasonable request.”

John pushed the object at him, into his chest, until Sherlock was forced to grab it. He stared at it, aghast. 

A headband with brown felt reindeer antlers stitched on, covered with cheap, metal bells painted bright green and red. Sherlock shook the antlers and the bells jangled discordantly. He looked pathetically up at John; the other man grinned widely and waved his hands in encouragement, miming putting something on his head.

Sherlock sighed and put the antlers on, the band crushing crisp black curls against his head. Nodding with satisfaction, John pulled out a small digital camera and snapped a photo. He looked positively gleeful. Sherlock made a mental note to find and destroy that camera as soon as John was asleep and was frustrated when John left the room with the device, presumably to hide it. 

When he returned, the antlers were halfway across the room, near the stairs that led to the front door. Sherlock looked positively mutinous, arms wrapped around his long legs, hugging them to his chest as he glared at John. 

“I see you play dirty, Captain.” He spat, watching John settle into the chair across from him with baleful eyes. John just grinned at him, shuffling his feet inside the slippers. 

“My turn.” He announced cheerfully, ignoring the murderous look Sherlock shot him. 

“Truth or dare?” Sherlock almost snarled, prompting a loud laugh from John. 

“Truth.” 

_Dammit, _Sherlock thought. He was hoping for a dare. Maybe he could make John eat one of the rotting toes stashed in the fridge… 

“Okay—_why did you steal the book?_” He demanded, his face lighting up triumphantly. John rolled his eyes. 

“Because I liked that it was blue and I liked the picture of the dog on the front.” He replied, shrugging at Sherlock’s noise of bitter disappointment. “Sorry, nothing deeper than that.” 

“You misled me, Watson.” Sherlock exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at the other man. 

“Did not.” John replied, grinning again. “All right, Sherlock, truth or dare.” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I am not participating in anymore of your humiliations, Watson.” He stated. “So I pick truth.” 

John shook with laughter; wiped at the corners of his eyes. “Oh, I’m showing that picture to _everyone_.” He laughed again, this time at the furious curses Sherlock muttered his way. Swallowing the rest of his mirth, John searched for a question to ask the detective. Sherlock watched him expectantly, his expression a blend of annoyance and intrigue. 

“Okay—who was your first kiss?” 

Sherlock scoffed, then squinted, thinking. “A girl named Joanna.” He said, finally. “We were 12 and 13. It was an experiment.” He shrugged. “I still don’t understand the fuss of the concept of a ‘first kiss’.” Across from him, John snorted. 

“Usually a first kiss is with someone you have feelings for, or, at least, someone you like.” He shook his head. “I don’t think it counts if it’s for an experiment.” Sherlock waved his hand, dismissive. 

“Whatever, John. Truth or dare?” 

John tugged at a loose thread in the neck of his jumper, thoughtful. Sherlock watched the movement, noting the way the motion briefly exposed John’s collar bone; a light curl of pale brown chest hair. He narrowed his eyes at the glimpsed skin, noting, as he often did, how reactive he felt when he looked at John Watson. 

It was confusing and annoying, and he was shaken out of his thoughts when John chose ‘dare’.

Sherlock’s eyes glittered. Standing, he stalked into the kitchen. He hesitated at the fridge, still considering the ‘make John eat rotting toes’ idea, before pulling open a cupboard and retrieving a small glass bottle. Walking back to the living room, he thrust the bottle out to John, who took it with confusion. He looked at Sherlock as the taller man settled back into his chair. 

“Hot sauce?” John questioned, frowning down at the condiment. “What am I supposed to—” 

“Drink it.” Sherlock interrupted. John stared at him and Sherlock looked smug, his lips curving up in a shit-eating grin.

“You want me to _drink_ hot sauce?” John asked, disbelief colouring his voice. Sherlock nodded emphatically.

“Not the whole thing, John, but yes, drink some.” His eyes glittered. “Unless—you want something else?” 

John’s face paled as he imagined what _that_ might mean and waved his hands. “No, no, this is… fine.” He looked doubtfully at the red liquid in the bottle and slowly unscrewed the lid. Twisting his face in anticipation, he brought the bottle to his lips and drank a small mouthful. 

Sherlock watched in glee, supressing the urge to clap when John began to sputter and turn red in the face; he laughed as the shorter man leapt to his feet and ran to the kitchen. Throwing on the cold tap, John stuck his mouth under the faucet and loudly gulped water. He spat into the sink and gagged. When he finally returned to the living room, his face was flushed and damp, and he stared murder from bloodshot eyes. Sherlock snorted and clutched his side, bent over with laughter. 

“Sherlock Holmes, you are a right arse.” John said darkly, rubbing at his wet face and hair until it stuck up in clumps and spikes. Sherlock slowly stopped laughing; found himself fixated as a droplet of water ran down John’s face, over his lips; down his neck and beneath the collar of his jumper. John lifted his glass of whiskey and drank a large gulp, shuddering as the liquor burned his throat. Sherlock stared at John’s lips on the edge of the glass for far too long and John frowned, noticing the strangely rapt attention.

“Earth to Sherlock.” He called, raising an eyebrow, hair still pointing in random directions. Sherlock shook himself, irritated at his own fixation. He covered his embarrassment by taking a drink from his own glass, his head beginning to swim in a not unpleasant way. 

“Truth, John. I pick truth.” 

“Okay, if your first kiss was an experiment, and it doesn’t really count—it _doesn’t_,” he added, insistent, catching Sherlock’s quiet objection. “—then who was your first _real_ kiss with?” He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock’s curled lip. “I mean, with someone who_ mattered_. You know, someone who you actually _wanted _to kiss, not just for ‘science’.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Why do you want to know?” He demanded. John frowned at him. 

“Because that’s the game, Sherlock. And—” he shrugged, a slight smile on his lips. “And because I’m curious.” 

Sighing, Sherlock curled his toes against the fabric of the chair, gripping his legs with long fingers. “You know how I feel about sentimentality, John.” He spoke with an aloof tone, face derisive. 

“Come on, Sherlock, you’re not answering the question.” John pointed at him. “I drank the bloody hot sauce, like you asked. Follow the rules.” 

“Fine.” Sherlock looked across the room, at the wall with the bullet holes and the spray-painted smiley face. “I have kissed a few people. I did not feel particularly strongly about any of them.” He cocked his head. “Irene Adler may have been the closest, but I am not sure I would say it ‘mattered’.” He bent his fingers into quotation marks around the last word. John looked flabbergasted. 

“So wait—you’ve _never_ kissed anyone that you actually _liked_?” He sounded shocked. 

Sherlock glared at him. “Your turn is over, John.” He said roughly, reminding John of his earlier enforcement of the rules. “It’s _my_ turn to ask _you_.” 

John looked annoyed, but he nodded, expression thoughtful. “All right, fine.” He said. “I pick truth.”

“Who was _your_ first kiss?” Sherlock slightly slurred the question, speaking so fast that John was briefly taken aback by the vehemence. His lips quirked.

“A bloke named Steve. We were in university together.” John answered, and Sherlock tilted his head, confused. 

“A man?” He asked, searching John’s face. 

“Yup.” John replied, his voice casual. He bit back a laugh at Sherlock’s expression: he had clearly meant to fluster John, catch him up, and had not been expecting the coolly, calm response. 

“And yet, you constantly insist that you are not gay.” Sherlock stated. John nodded, comfortable and relaxed.

“And I’m not.” He said breezily, leaning back in the chair and crossing his legs. “I like women. _And_ I like men.” He rubbed at his drying hair, face no longer red from the hot sauce beverage. 

Sherlock steepled his fingers before him; looked annoyed. _Of course_. He felt stupid and he did not like it. He took another drink, buying time to sort his thoughts. The answer had been obvious, right in front of him, if he had only reflected on the context of their conversation at Angelo’s.

_Do you have a boyfriend?_

_Which is fine, by the way._

_Right, okay. Unattached. Like me. _

_Fine._

_Good._

Sherlock sank deeper into the chair, looking annoyed; inspired; devious. 

“Very well, John.” He said, finally, drawing out his words as John dutifully refilled their glasses. The bottle was almost empty, Sherlock noted, and he wondered when that had happened. He smirked. “Ask me.”

John watched Sherlock carefully, sensing the abrupt change of mood in the other man. “Truth or dare?” He said slowly, cautiously, gripping the glass of whiskey in his hand like a shield.

“Dare.” Sherlock said, confident and smug. John stared at him, searching that angular, sharp face for an explanation for Sherlock’s sudden smugness. As he did so, his eyes paused on Sherlock’s full, curved lips, and an idea flashed into his head. 

He knew how to knock Sherlock off his high horse. He wasn’t going to win _this_ game. 

“All right, Sherlock.” John sat up, carefully placing his glass on the side table, mindful of the way the whiskey affected his coordination. He felt warm and confident, face flushed with the liquor and his limbs pleasantly numb to the cold. 

Sherlock watched him, eyes narrowed and jaw tense, noting the mischievous light in John’s eyes and the way he leaned forward in the chair, towards him. 

“I dare you… ” he leaned even closer, speaking slowly and methodically as he placed his hands on Sherlock’s legs. The detective jumped, frowning. John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s knees, showing his teeth in a predatory grin. “…to kiss me.” He gently squeezed his hands and Sherlock jumped again, the pressure triggering his reflexes. 

The detective’s face flushed and his eyes skated away. “I change my mind,” he spat out, wondering why John was playing this mean game with him. Was he making fun of him? Regardless, he did not appreciate it. He looked back at John and his eyes were furious and dark. “I choose truth.” 

John opened his mouth to protest, to say that was against the rules, but Sherlock’s harsh glare stopped him. Instead, he shrugged, removing his hands from Sherlock’s legs and sitting back in the chair, his legs stretched out as his upper body slumped into the chair. He folded his arms across his chest.

“All right, fine. Okay, Sherlock. Truth it is.” He sat up in the chair, leaning forward and resting his hands on his own thighs this time, face suddenly animated. “Why were you on the stairs this morning?” He grinned devilishly as Sherlock’s eyes widened, shock rippling across his face as he grasped the depth of John’s deception. 

“I—that’s—how did you—” Sherlock sputtered, the alcohol getting the better of his usually biting intellect. He glared at the other man; John looked positively delighted with himself, once more leaning lazily back against his chair. Sherlock gritted his teeth together; dug his fingers into the arms of the chair. Finally, he rolled his eyes, struggling to affect a carefully detached tone of voice through the tipsiness that threatened to numb his thinking process 

“Fine, Watson. I see you planned this all along. I suppose you’ve earned your answer.” He was looking around the room, anywhere but at John, and the other man was amused to note how Sherlock’s face was swiftly reddening. 

“Yes, Sherlock, do go on.” He said, waving his hand lazily and smiling at the pointed glare Sherlock directed over his head as he avoided eye contact. 

“I was cold.” Sherlock ground out through a tense jaw. John looked at him, but the other man refused to say more, finally meeting the doctor’s eyes as he tried to stare him down. But John wasn’t fazed. He had faced Moriarty; survived Afghanistan; fought off criminals and assailants of all kind. Sherlock Holmes certainly wasn’t going to defeat him with just a look. 

“Sherlock.” He prompted. “The rules.”

Sherlock snarled and downed the rest of his whiskey in a savage gulp, eyes flashing as he slammed the empty glass onto the side table. 

“Fine. Okay, John. I was on the stairs because I was cold and I thought your room might be warmer. Heat rises, _Watson_, or have you forgotten basic thermodynamics?” Sherlock looked flustered and furious; the glare he raked over John’s face was scathing in its anger. 

John squinted, still confused. “You thought my room would be warmer—wait, were you planning to, what? Stand? Sleep on the floor?” His eyes flashed wide and he pointed a finger at the angry detective. “Sherlock Holmes, were you trying to _sleep with me?_”

Sherlock reached out and swatted the accusing finger away, his coordination slippery with inebriation. His fingers caught on John’s hand; curled loosely around his wrist.

“It’s _not your turn anymore, John!_” He spat, pushing his arm out and flinging John’s hand away so it flopped into John’s own lap. “_‘Sherlock, follow the rules’_.” He repeated, mocking John in a high voice.

“_Fuck _the rules,” John growled, lunging up from his chair. Sherlock’s eyes widened as John grabbed his shoulders, then his face, and pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s.

The kiss was sudden and fervent, John gripping Sherlock’s face tightly between his hands. Their lips parted, both gasping and watching one another, before Sherlock slipped forward, pushing John back into the chair. He slipped into John’s lap, long legs awkwardly shifting until his knees fell to either side and he straddled John’s waist, curling his fingers into damp, messy hair and angling his face down to capture John’s lips with his. John kissed him eagerly, one hand gripping Sherlock’s hip; the other sliding up his back, pulling him closer.

The power flicked on in the flat with a buzzing sound; the fridge hummed aggressively in the kitchen behind them. Neither noticed, too caught up in one another to pay attention. 

Sherlock traced his tongue over John’s bottom lip, cataloguing and tasting; hot sauce; whiskey; something else—sweet, heady, uniquely _John._ Beneath him, John practically purred, the sound thrumming deep inside his body, and Sherlock pushed his hands against John’s jumper-clad chest, kneading like a cat; seeking out warm skin and contact.

When they finally broke apart, Sherlock leaning away with his hands braced on John’s shoulders, looking down at him, their breathing came in quick, heavy gasps. A bright red flush crept up John’s neck, into his face.

“Mm,” John hummed; cheekily pinched the curve of Sherlock’s upper leg. “I dare you to do that again.” 

Still panting, Sherlock pressed his body into John’s, eyes glinting. “Sorry John,” He replied, his face coy. “But it’s _not __your turn_.”


End file.
